


embrace in decay

by inallmybitterness



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Analysis, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, death imagery, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 08:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20561000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inallmybitterness/pseuds/inallmybitterness
Summary: Corpses have no need for warmth. It only helps them decay faster.Dimitri needed to remain cold. Only then could the dead be preserved.





	embrace in decay

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I haven’t played Three Houses myself yet because games are expensive as all fuck in my country, BUT I have watched videos of nearly the entire Blue Lions route. If I get anything wrong due to missing story details, feel free to ignore. Or point it out. Your call.
> 
> Byleth’s pronouns are they/them and you can picture whatever design you prefer for them. 
> 
> Anyway, this is just some incredibly self-indulgent, retrospective shit because Dimitri makes me feel things. I hope this makes you all feel things too.
> 
> CW: minor spoilers, non-explicit sex scene, and lots of death imagery.

Warmth had never been too present a concept in his life. The cold lands where he grew up faced harsh winters, during which heavy coats and capes made the temperature bearable, but nothing beyond that.

The heat of battle was frantic, energetic, a rush that brought out the beast within. As much as it energized him, it burned bright and deadly—and once the effects of adrenaline wore out, he could only look back on the atrocities he had committed with disgust. It was like an explosion, a fiery surge that left sensitive scars and horrid destruction on its wake.

Hot days at the monastery was uncomfortable, damp, and induced an unbearably lazy state that required more than just a little willpower to get over for the sake of training. Like a sickening fever.

Fire itself, while also reminiscent of a fireplace lit up on a chilly night, was heavily associated with war: brigands destroying houses, mages wreaking havoc, people fighting for their lives. An infernal concept.

At times, he wondered whether he had ever known true warmth—accepting, comforting, embracing. Was such a thing even necessary? Despite the lack of warmth, he did have many memories he held dear. Times he spent with his father, conversations with close companions, a good sparring session with skilled partners. Whenever he managed to help someone without breaking anything in the process. Brief moments shortly before falling asleep, wrapped in blankets, when he wasn’t conscious enough to claim to be awake, nor unconscious to the point of being assailed by the usual nightmares. All of those moments were enjoyable and precious to him, yet none of them gave him the idea of “warmth”.

It may have been that the closest he had ever gotten to it was that one year he spent with his dearest friend, the girl he saw as a sister long before he knew her to be his stepmother’s child. Of course, she could be harsh and bossy and get bored a little too easily. Her spirit was like a flame, and one that most people could find to be overbearing or blinding. He, however, was fond of it. Even when that flame burned him, he somehow still treasured the scars.

Though time had passed and reality had laid a layer—or more—of pain atop those memories, he could still feel a tinge of warm longing beneath all of the hurt and resentment. A feeling he, now a monster with no mask to hide behind, doubted he would ever feel again. A feeling he would be forever unworthy of… or so he thought, until it unexpectedly came back to him, brought by the hands of one of the people he admired the most.

The first time that person reached out to him, he could barely recognize them. Years had passed, and he had long resigned himself to the conclusion they had died. Another ghost that would eventually, invariably haunt him. That was almost good, on one hand: the professor he cherished so much wouldn’t get to see the depraved, irredeemable beast he had turned into. On the other, the day would come when their soul would come back and join the choir that haunted him, along with his father and stepmother and Glenn and everybody else he had failed.

When he saw that head full of green-tinted silver hair appear before him, bathed in the sunlight slithering through the cracks in the roof of the fallen monastery, he was certain the time had come for that ghost to demand their dues. When they reached out to him, he was certain it was some way to beckon him to the world of the dead, to envelop him even more in the pain they felt. Maybe he was the one the others sent to collect his soul following his failure to avenge them. _No_, he thought. _Please give me another chance. I will set things right. I will bring you that woman's head in due time._

He did not take that hand. Even upon realizing the person before him was alive, he refused to get any closer. Rather than pulling him into their own world, the professor seemed to wish to drag him out of his, and that was something he could not afford. He could not afford to abandon the actual ghosts that haunted him, unavenged and hurting. He could not leave them alone to rot.

Because that is the only use the dead have for any form of warmth: it only makes them decay faster. Their bodies are stripped of any essence that had been left of the people they once were, eaten away by maggots that thrive in the heat. The flesh withers and the blood dries and even when only unrecognizable bones are left, they simply disappear into the dirt.

That is why he needed to remain distant and cold. Only in the cold can the dead be preserved. Only as a cold, inhuman creature could he commit himself to carry out his revenge.

But then, that hand reached out to him again.

Instead of sunlight, they were now standing under the pouring rain, surrounded by ruins left by a recent battle. After yet one more person, the one he saw as a second father, left to join the army of ghosts that clung to him. His world was crashing down in many ways, in and out. At each step he took, more destruction ensued, one more soul joined that vortex of voices, whispering and pleading; one more pair of eyes staring at him in scorn, in pity, in disapproval. All of those voices and eyes and faint scattered memories that joined together in one large spiral that consumed him—and yet, if he ever tried to break that spiral down into all of its separate parts, he would be unable to. The memories were already falling apart and mashing together.

They were already decaying, and he couldn’t stop it. He could still hear their voices, see their eyes, but as much as he tried to recover any other details about those people, he failed. He was stuck in the middle of that spiraling, raging, loud, dreadful vortex.

Instead of waiting for him to grab it, the professor took more initiative this time, grasping his hands tightly between their own as they said those words.

_Live for what you believe in_.

Despite the rain,

despite the chilly air of the evening,

despite the dread freezing his own heart,

he felt it.

Warmth.

Soft, welcoming, guiding. Hopeful.

_(Decaying_, a voice whispered from the back of his mind.)

Despite how closely he paid attention to the professor, he had never noticed their hands. Surely it wasn’t the first time they touched, right? During their time at the monastery, there _must _have been some moment in which they touched. But he could not recall, his mind a mess whenever he tried to remember… anything in detail, basically. So he couldn’t help but be surprised by what he felt at that moment. He expected the rough, calloused hands of a seasoned mercenary, perhaps marked by scars old and new. Instead, what he felt was gentle warmth that immediately—ironically—cut a path into his heart.

He could not help but point it out.

_Your hands are so warm… Have they always been?_

And that was the moment his defenses started to tumble down.

Later, he was a little thankful for the dark and the rain. His tears must have blended in well.

At that moment, however, he had nothing on his mind but their warmth, their ocean-green eyes, and the sound of the rain muffling the cries in the back of his mind.

* * *

Later that night, in his sleep, he felt it. Guilt. Extreme guilt for accepting the professor's hand—and with it, their kindness. In his nightmare, the choir of voices, the amalgamation of disjointed faces in a dark mortal blur stared and screamed at him, louder than ever before. _Will you forsake us_, they asked him. Accused him. _Will you cast us aside? Will you abandon us to the maggots, Dimitri? _

They were so loud, so unbearably loud. He wanted to curl up on the ground and cover his ears, turn his back and try to run, anything. As if he hadn't tried it all before. But no matter where he turned to, he could not run from them. Dreams were their realm, the only place where they could still exist, after all. The whole place (if you could even call it that) was imbued with their essence, made from mnemic remains of them.

Dimitri was unable to turn his gaze away. His eye was fixated on the heaps of rotting skin—blue, green, purple hues; some with a brown layer of dry blood on top, others still glistening in vivid red—, contorted muscles that had become stiff with time, but somehow managed to move so they could spew venomous truths at him; empty sockets and those that still sheltered old, yellowed eyes deep inside. He recognized stray traces of people he once knew: his father’s blue eyes, much like his own. His stepmother’s brown hair. Glenn’s tone, still sarcastic in spite of his current condition. But he could not tell where one ended and the other begun.

They were all melting together. Rotting together.

He could feel the pinch of minuscule legs—tens, hundreds, possibly thousands of them—climbing onto his feet, making their way up his legs. Maggots? He had a feeling they were maggots. His heart beat faster at the thought—he could feel their numbers growing, and growing, like a miniature army marching onto enemy territory, ready to strike. To bring the enemy down.

The maggots were soldiers, and the dead were their lords. He was their enemy, the traitor who had turned his back on them.

_If you will not avenge us_, the collective entity in front of him said, _will you decay with us, Dimitri? Will you at least do us that favor, and not abandon us again?_

His throat was tied in a knot. He wanted to scream in response, he wanted to cry, he wanted to fight. But he could not. He could only feel his legs overtaken by the maggots that kept marching up and farther up; his nostrils invaded by sickening heat that made it hard to breathe; and his eyes glued to the entity that now spread around him, trapping him in that familiar deadly vortex that smelled strongly of carrion.

He wanted to vomit.

Until, finally, a voice stood out among their mad pleas and accusations. A voice that was still fresh in his memory, as fresh as the stab wound in the back of his shoulder.

_Dimitri, my boy_, said Rodrigue's voice. As Dimitri sought its source, he was able to locate it: right in front of him, the knight’s face was, unlike the others, untouched by the wheel of time. He seemed pale, and a faint red smudge garnished the corner of his lips, but his features and voice were clear and distinguished.

Out of all horrific imagery that surrounded him, it was that one clear, familiar face that made tears well up in his eyes.

_Remember my words_, Rodrigue told him, his voice cracking similarly to when he uttered his last words in Dimitri’s arms. _Your life is your own. It belongs to no other, living… or dead._

**_Live for what you believe in_.**

Another voice had joined the fray, but this one was different.

Vivid as the memory of Rodrigue’s voice was, he still sounded hollow. Like an empty vessel, devoid of life.

The voice that pronounced those words along with him was not. It was vibrant, determined, emotional. Alive.

_Professor! _Dimitri’s voice finally came out, that _living _voice eliciting reactions he did not think he could muster in such a situation. _Professor! Are you out there?!_

From a crack in the putrid wall formed by the dead vortex swirling around him, that figure he relied on so often walked towards him: their kind eyes, a soft, barely noticeable smile on their gentle lips, and a warm hand reaching out to him yet again.

_You must run_, Dimitri sobbed in despair, attempting to ignore their inviting hand. _The dead, they will consume me. The maggots, they will devour me. You must save yourself!_

_No, Dimitri_, the Professor’s ever-understanding voice said. _I am not leaving your side._

_B-but_, the prince choked on the tears that now ran down his cheeks, out of control, _if you stay, you will rot as well. We will all rot with them! You must leave me!_

The Professor shook their head, as if trying to reason with a stubborn student while still keeping their cool. They always kept their cool. It was one of the many things he admired about them.

_You are strong, Dimitri_, they said. _And you are alive. You will not let them best you._

_I am not, Professor_. He could feel the maggots up to his chest. He wanted to claw them out until he ripped his very own flesh, if it meant certainty that he had rid himself of every last one of them. _Their cries are still too loud. Their grasp is still too tight. And now, they want to suffocate me with this putrefying heat. I cannot fight them, Professor. I don’t know how._

_Then, _and they wrapped their arms around him, _I will help you. I am here with you. Either we will decay together, or we will fight this together, Dimitri. _

It may have been the comfort he found in the Professor’s embrace or the violent sobs that rocked his body as he leaned against them, but for a moment before he opened his eyes, Dimitri could swear the maggots were retreating and the ghastly choir around them sounded more distant, and the oppressive heat had somehow turned into peaceful warmth, as if transformed by the hands that had come to his rescue once again.

* * *

After that, and especially after retaking his home, he felt as if new life were slowly, steadily breathed into him. The turmoil he found himself stuck in hadn’t ceased—he knew that would never happen—but it had become significantly more bearable. Instead of imprisoning him, it felt more like a force that compelled him. Rather than the sickening heat that helped corpses rot, he believed the comforting warmth surrounding him could shelter him enough to help him face those souls with his head held high, ensure them that he was listening and keeping them in mind to the best of his ability. Perhaps—he thought half-heartedly, as if only entertaining a wild fantasy—perhaps a day would come in which he would be able to let himself bask in the blissful tranquility of having finally helped them feel at ease.

He touched the professor’s hand countless times after that day. Sometimes, he would hold it to help them walk after sustaining a minor injury in battle, or even while training. (He knew such a capable person had no need for help in those situations, but he insisted.) The back of their hands would fleetingly brush against each other during their private teatime, when they reached for something on the table. That one time they fully held his hand again to _“steal him away” _to the victory celebration after taking back Arianrhod. Brief moments of warmth that gradually welled up inside him until he was able to give that feeling a different name.

It was love. It had probably been so since their time at the monastery, if he was perfectly honest. The difference was that he now allowed himself to acknowledge it—face it—embrace it.

And so, he did what he never thought he would: he dreamt of a future for himself, for his country, with Byleth by his side. He thought he would be able to protect them and make them happy. He thought that, even if he was unworthy, it only meant he would need to work twice as hard to ensure he would not cause his beloved any grief—any more than he already had, at least.

_How odd is it_, he thought, _that the person I am willing to work twice as hard for is also the one that makes me feel at peace._

He confessed his feelings for them and gave them a ring, and couldn’t suppress his surprise when they were the one to propose _and _say the word “love” first.

Although it was not the first time he reached for their hand, no other moment had been as special as that one. As he slipped his ring on their finger, he felt their hand gently and looked at it with attention. It was smaller than he remembered (or assumed), and looked fragile enough to fool anyone who didn’t know them into thinking they were a delicate, feeble person. But he knew the immense strength those fragile hands held, and how many times they had saved him, both from outside enemies and from himself.

Especially from himself.

He wanted to cling onto those hands forever, and to be the one who would protect them for once. He wanted to protect their warmth.

The warmth he felt on his face when they touched it, and that spread across his cheeks and surely made him blush.

The warmth he soon felt on their lips upon touching his. It was involving and possibly the softest sensation he had ever felt and even more intense than their hands, the hands that rested on his cheeks—his neck—the back of his head, pulling him closer and deeper in, pressing their bodies together through their armor and clothes. The warmth of their breath against his skin, their hair in his fingers, their tongue melding into his.

It was a chilly evening atop the Goddess Tower, but he had never felt warmer inside, and his body grew hotter and hotter. What they were doing could be considered sacrilege—possibly—the members of the Church would certainly deem it so, had they known—but he paid it no mind. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he felt both mind and body lighten, as if emptied of nothing but his _love _for the person he now held in his arms.

He soon learned their body, as a whole, was equally warm—and being able to be with them, to explore it, made his especially hot. It was a different type of heat from his sparring sessions, although both sent sparks of energy through his system. One was hungry for the thrill of a fight, for putting his strength to use, for victory. The other craved touch, intimacy, no loss or victory but simply to _give _himself—all of himself—to the person he valued so much.

He felt it spark when he laid his hands on their bare waist—thighs—back—chest. When he felt their bodies close against each other without any clothes or armor to interfere. When their warm mouth planted wet kisses on his neck and their soft hands trailed his muscles and his scars, and pressed and held him in ways he had never experienced before, until he had to restrain their hands to keep them from teasing him until he could no longer hold back. When their thighs wrapped tightly around his waist and he heard them whisper his name against his ear, sending gusts of short, shallow, pleased breaths towards his skin as he returned all of the teasing he had received, eagerly finding and testing each sensitive spot to see how far he could drive his partner. When he felt them inside, enveloping him, so close and still urging him closer.

And closer, and closer.

And even during the mildly painful moments, such as when they tugged at his hair or dug their nails into his back, or when he bit too strongly into the curve between their neck and collarbone or when he held onto their hips too tightly; all the times they probably left marks on each other’s skin, he still felt it.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

And even when both of their voices rose and their breaths grew shallow and neither could form coherent sentences anymore, scarcely able to call out the other’s name, he still felt it.

Closer. Closer still. _Closer_.

And even when their skin was damped in sweat and nothing else existed except for their bodies and the points where the two joined together, and he thought he was losing his mind in the most deliciously enthralling way.

Even then, he felt it. The warmth that sustained all of that—all of the heat and the lust and the comfort that allowed him to let his guard down to such a level with the person he had grown to love.

And he thought that, maybe, this was a form of decay. Losing yourself. Letting your mind and body come undone. Having another creature devour all traces of you, all of your essence. Becoming one with something—somebody—else.

If so, he would gladly let himself rot. If dismantling himself meant joining with his beloved, bringing them bliss and reaffirming their acceptance for each other, a reminder that they would be there to face all grim ghosts of the past and the terrifying unknown that lies ahead—with them, by his side, compelling and sheltering him—then he would let himself decay again, and again, and again. Let the monstrous hatred in his heart rot, so that it may make room for love and redemption.

And warmth.

Much like the warmth that overflowed and surrounded them as they lay together after being pushed to their limits in each other’s arms, their breathing stabilizing at last as the lull of sleep naturally settled upon them.

The warmth that accompanied him into his sleep, sheltering him and helping him feel a little safer when the voices came back to haunt him in his nightmares.

He knew, from that moment on, that warmth would be as present in his life as those voices.

To remind him to face them;

To comfort him, should he hesitate;

To ensure that the dead hate weighing upon his heart would decay

and disappear

into the dirt.


End file.
